


Must Be a Sucker For It

by stutter



Category: American Actor RPF, Girls (TV), Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars RPF
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - School, Bromance, Dirty Talk, Frottage, Grad School AU, Hand Jobs, M/M, New York City, Seduction by Witty Banter, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-09 08:12:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7794121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stutter/pseuds/stutter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So this is a thing now. Adam’s a Thing now, very cool."</p><p>Not exactly a Juilliard AU, because Oscar Isaac and Adam Driver did both go to Juilliard. More like an alternate timeline where they're in the same Group. A story about two bros trying to make each other laugh and avoid talking about their feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. your legs give way, you hit the ground

**Author's Note:**

> Figure they're maybe like 21 and 25 in this. Title's from "Save It For Later" by The English Beat.

In Mask class, Oscar watches Adam inhabiting this somewhat gruesome turquoise turtle face nobody’d been particularly eager to go for. He’s light on his feet, head snapping at odd angles, arms pinwheeling, akimbo, almost like a vogue dramatics thing going on. Very almost lovely, if you sort of will. Adam’s an odd bird, lacking in both the thirst and poise Oscar associates with the worst of New York theater types. Nothing weirds him out! No exercise is too invasive, no question is too personal. Everybody wanted a cat or a dog or your standard Kabuki-esque grimace, but there’s Adam, duck-walk lunging across the studio in his mask with enough confidence to make you kind of go, damn, shoulda grabbed that gnarly blue reptile when I had the chance. Oscar tries to channel his envy at Adam’s easy grace into matching his energy and enthusiasm, his effortless weirdoism. Instead he gets like half a boner and, oh no, so this is a thing now. Adam’s a Thing now, very cool.

\--

Somebody told Oscar that Adam used to be a Marine. He thinks that might be a decent entryway into a conversation that doesn’t start with _good work in Mask today, man_ and end with _yeah yeah thank you, yes, you too,_ stuttering out into perfunctories until they turn separate corners toward different trains. Probably Oscar should just leave it alone. It might not be necessarily _less_ awkward to approach tall, striking Adam and say, hey, hello, I heard you were in the Marines for a time, so was that cool or traumatizing or what?

“Oscar?” says Adam in his ear softly. Oscar startles and turns. Adam looks sheepish.

“You got an extra pencil?” he asks. 

“Aw, yeah, of course,” Oscar says, and gives Adam the one in his hand.

“Danke.” Adam’s face tilts back down to his notebook. Oscar smiles at him in a way he’s sure is less manic than it feels. He looks forward at the whiteboard full of Labanotations, empty-handed, and thinks what a great opportunity this is to hone his skills of visual memorization.

\--

For what it’s worth, Oscar is not - like, the infatuation Thing is so silly. It’s so goofy. It is uncharacteristic. Oscar has no problem with, like, with dating in general, or with sex specifically, or with asking out a good-looking guy or girl at the bar, or at a show, or what have you. Conversation, intimacy, it’s no different for him than boiling water: patience and heat are all that’s required. Science does the rest. 

Adam’s eyes are light brown, thoughtful, a soft objection against the violence of the rest of his strong, strange features. Who even has eyes that color. Why would you, even, if not to terrorize and beguile. 

\--

Oscar is killing time out by the fountain in front of the opera house, which, when it’s quiet like this, early in the morning on a weekday, is one of the best places in the city. The plaza’s dotted sparsely with tourists, slow like hermit crabs with their massive backpacks, speaking different tongues. He’s got his guitar and is finger-picking a folksy little ditty he’s been working on - he bought a Joni Mitchell songbook secondhand at Other Music a month ago and has been obsessed with stealing her tunings ever since - and he and the world glide along together, roughly parallel, like model sailboats in Central Park. 

“Hmm- _hmmm_ ,” hums Adam, beside him suddenly. Oscar is too pleased to be surprised and too surprised to mask it. He answers back with a new strain of melody, and Adam, always game in that nonplussed way of his, goes counterpoint in an impossible rumbling bass. Oscar feels it in the pit of his stomach and along his vertebrae. He smiles hugely. “ _Yeah,_ man!” he enthuses, nodding along. His hands work on their own, full of easy math. 

“You can really play,” Adam says, breaking the harmony of his voice along the notes. “That’s awesome.” 

“You can sing!” Oscar beams at him. “Not bad.”

“You know what this means,” Adam says flatly.

Oscar nods into his guitar strings. “We oughta get the kids together and put on a show.” 

“I reckon we just might save the farm.” Adam forks his hair off his face with a sober expression. 

“Why did I think it was the rec center?” Oscar muses.

“Easy mistake to make. Frankly, this whole community’s in shambles.” They’re sitting close, closer when Adam leans back so their shoulders brush. “I worry it’ll take more than a show. We need a federal grant.”

“Except, you know, bureaucracy,” Oscar goes on. He can almost see Adam smiling out of the corner of his eye. “We’ll never get all the paperwork done in time. We’ll have to foreclose.”

“Yeah. Of course. Well, it was worth a try.” There’s a shift in Adam’s voice, and the sound of it makes Oscar’s ribs go tight inside his shirt. “Gonna miss it, the old rec center where we used to house all those farm animals.”

Oscar breaks and laughs, and then Adam does too. The fountain at their backs shoots upward in reckless, giddy spurts. When Oscar turns to look at Adam, there’re droplets in his dark hair and he's grinning crookedly back at him. Oscar’s hands stall on the strings, sound floating off on the open air. 

Adam glides to his feet in one movement. The plaza’s slowly filling up, which means it’s almost time for class. He clears his throat and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “You off book?” he asks his shoes. 

“Sure. I mean, I should be. Are you?” Adam shrugs and makes a noncommittal noise. Oscar puts his guitar gently into her case and stands beside Adam, who passively towers over him. He does that thing a lot of very tall guys do, hunching slightly, and even so Oscar’s at just the right height to stare at his mouth. Oh no, Oscar thinks, as the Thing about Adam looms up into the pit of his stomach. To distract it, he jumps up on his toes to break into Adam’s eye level, and then does it again when Adam laughs in surprise.

“Egad,” Adam deadpans. “So sprightly.” Then his face breaks open into a real, goofy smile. “Man, I - I never would’ve guessed about you.”

“Guessed what?” Oscar asks, suddenly nervous.

“That you’re so weird,” Adam says, starting to take off toward the Juilliard building in long strides. Oscar grabs his case and follows behind. “But you are. Stone-cold bananagrams.”

“You wouldn’t have guessed?” Oscar has to hurry to keep up with him, but he feels buoyant, alight. “I don’t like, hide it exactly. I wear my bananagrams on my sleeve, where they belong.” Adam laughs again, and Oscar floats the rest of the way to class beside him like a friendly ghost.

\--

In the mornings when they have Scene Study, after that, they meet by the fountain. It's not planned exactly, but Adam figures out quick that it's where Oscar goes to noodle on his guitar in the quiet, and surely he picks up on the way Oscar lights up like Christmas every time he slinks down beside him on the fountain. Then he starts bringing Oscar coffee.

“Thank you, dude,” Oscar says emphatically, switching coffee and guitar between his hands as they walk to class. One of the clasps on his case has come undone and he stops to fix it before his baby falls to the ground. Adam lifts the coffee out of his grasp so he can finagle it, then replaces it in one smooth gesture once the case is secured. 

“You're welcome, _man_.” He always keeps his focus straight ahead, but he’ll almost like sneak glances at Oscar from time to time, like he’s making sure he can keep up. It’s either insulting or sweet. “You don’t like coffee, do you?”

“What? No. Yes I do,” Oscar counters, and when Adam just raises an eyebrow, he repeats, “Yes I _do_ , homie.” 

Adam loves bits. Oscar loves how much Adam loves bits. “You haven’t touched that, hombre. You never do, you just hold it on the way over, don’t you?” 

“Bro, I’m waiting for it to cool.” 

“You could’ve told me you didn’t like coffee. It wouldn’t, like, bruise my ego,” Adam says dryly. “I just would have brought you tea or something you actually like.” Oscar feels nervous heat creeping up his neck. “...Broseph,” Adam adds mildly.

Oscar swallows. “I do like coffee,” he says. “And I like that you bring me coffee, so I haven’t said anything. You also might think this is kinda ridiculous -”

“I doubt that very much,” says Adam. They’re just outside the doors of the Irene Diamond now and he leans against one glass wall, watching Oscar struggle with bemusement. “If this is some kind of personal or religious thing you don’t have to tell me,” he says, eyebrows up.

“It’s not that! It’s not a big thing. I just don’t like to drink it before acting. I don’t want caffeine getting in the way of anything going on with me, anything that could take me out of my body or change my circumstances within it. I try to go in, like, dead-neutral, no help. Even if it’s just a class. I just don’t want to risk it.” He shrugs. “Sorry I didn’t say.” 

Adam is smiling again. “Well, I’m - I’m completely furious, so, I mean, this is really the end of the line.” He kicks off the wall and heads inside, holding the door open for Oscar. “I do not think that’s ridiculous at all,” he says. “It’s admirable.” He lifts the cup out of Oscar’s hand and takes a sip, then gives it back. “You do owe me like ten bucks, though.”

“Jesus,” Oscar says, grinning. “I didn’t realize you were so hard up.” 

“Only for your sainted mother,” Adam says, and then cracks up at his own shitty joke, loud enough that studious undergrad heads turn and the walls seem to shudder with sound.

\--

It’s one thing to have a Thing about someone. Oscar was prepared to moon over Adam from a comfortable distance. Like, they’re actors - objectively, most everyone in the Group is symmetrical, lithe. There’s always someone in your class you can’t help but angle your body toward, wondering if they’re looking, a voyeur on the other side of the fourth wall. A Thing is transient, impersonal, juvenile but harmless. A Thing is a trick-or-treater outgrowing his costume - aren’t you a little old for this? - and then wandering off, sugar-sated, into the dark.

Oscar and Adam spend mornings together before class jamming by the fountain, Adam singing morose, absurdist lyrics while Oscar tries not to laugh so hard he loses the rhythm. They meet for weekend Yoga to the People sessions downtown, sardined into tiny rooms with marketing girls and finance bros, doing child’s pose on slightly-rank rented mats, making feel-the-burn faces at each other during chair pose, coming to rest in corpse drenched in sweat. They get drinks with the rest of the Group after long rehearsals and in-class performances, absently buying each other rounds, I’ll get the next one, this one’s on me. Oscar knows how much Adam hates Meisner technique - he utterly loses it in front of the entire Group, throwing over his chair, bellowing, “This is _STUPID_!” into his scene partner Gillian’s bemused face (she deadpans back, “This _is_ stupid,” without flinching). Oscar knows how much Adam loves The Pretenders and The English Beat, and that he thinks all ska after first-wave is terrible, to the point that when Oscar tells him he’d been in a ska band before turning to acting, Adam thinks he’s joking and bursts out laughing, which genuinely hurts Oscar’s feelings. He knows how sorry Adam is afterwards because he wraps him up in a huge, warm bear hug and tells him he would’ve come to see Oscar’s band regardless of their dumb, terrible genre. They laugh more. They don’t talk about it. Oscar knows which girls in the Group Adam thinks are the cutest, knows which ones he’s flirted with, who he’s taken home. 

Adam knows Oscar’s deli sandwich order for each of the three best delis around Lincoln Center. He knows when Oscar’s too tired to talk, or too high to stay out, usually before Oscar figures it out himself. He runs lines with Oscar for commercial auditions, never getting frustrated or bored when Oscar wants to start again, again, just one more time, sorry man, thank you. He fixes the buttons on Oscar’s shirt when he does them up wrong in a hurry. He slowly, sneakily transforms from that hot guy Oscar’s got a Thing about to one of his favorite people, the best part of most days. Even when it hurts Oscar like new shoes, like a sunburn, persistent and largely his own fault.


	2. kept me warm in a cold place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh whoops it got so much longer than it was supposed to, because i'm garbage. one more after this. idk if you like recommended listening, but if you do, obviously the title song, "Save it for Later" by the English Beat, and when I was writing this part I was listening to "HELP!" by The Front Bottoms basically nonstop. Ok. Love you. thanks.

There's no breaking in, no fade or peel, so when Gillian asks him out for drinks one night, he says yes. He meets her in the village for a drink and she looks incredible, wearing this shiny black dress with a big denim shirt over it, a dozen little rings on her fingers. She’s already a beer in, tilting her glass in his direction with a roguish wink. 

“Oh, hello,” she drawls, boosting herself up on her stool to kiss his cheek. “You look nice.”

“You look gorgeous,” Oscar says honestly. “I like your dress. What's it even made of?”

“Moonlight,” Gillian says, fluffing her bright blond hair like a Tex Avery dame. “And child labor.”

“I thought I recognized that sheen.” Oscar nods sagely. Gillian snorts with laughter and grins the bartender over. Oscar orders the first beer he doesn't recognize on draft and throws down cash. 

“You know -” Gillian leans in close over the music, smelling a little boozy and a little floral. “This is the bar where Dylan Thomas died.” She raises her eyebrows suggestively. “So that's pretty hot, right?” 

“Super hot,” says Oscar. “Is that true?” 

Gillian raises a few fingers, scout’s honor. “Kind of a morose fun fact to get the ball rolling,” she says, shrugging one shoulder. “Set the tone, you know.” Oscar’s beer arrives, spilling over his fingertips. 

“You really know how to put a guy at ease.” He lifts his glass toward her. “Thanks very much for inviting me out with you tonight. I needed this.”

“To needing!” Gillian clinks gamely. “Honestly, Hernandez, I’m so glad you said yes. You ruined my life in Scene Study the other day, fucking ruined it.” She shakes her head. “You’re so good.”

“Stop. You’re always killer up there,” Oscar says. “And you’re hysterical.” 

“Please, please, take the compliment,” Gillian says dryly, “or we’re gonna do this all night, deflect each others’ praise until our heads fall off. I think this is what killed Dylan Thomas, actually. Not the liquor. He just overheard a couple of grad students like jerking each other off for an hour and decided, welp, goodnight cruel world.” 

Oscar laughs. “I had no idea you were an authority on the inner lives of twentieth-century poets.” His phone buzzes gently against his thigh, and he starts fishing it from his pocket to turn it off.

“Oh, yeah. No joke. I actually love all those guys, it’s a little embarrassing,” Gillian says. “My Kerouac phase lasted longer than the average high schooler’s.” 

_hey hey hey_ reads the text. _drink? my apt is too cold_. Oscar snorts and puts the phone aside.

Gillian rests her chin in her hand, watching this. “I’m sorry. That was rude,” Oscar says. “I went through a big Kerouac phase, too. I think it’s an adolescent rite of passage.” 

“No, of course, but of all of those guys, I kind of feel like the one that really sticks to me is Ginsberg,” Gillian says. The phone vibrates again. It’s a picture of Jack Nicholson’s frozen face from the end of _The Shining._ Adam texts, _here is a self-portrait_. Oscar grins before he can school his expression, and Gillian cranes to see. “Is that Driver?” she asks, making a grab for the phone. Oscar pulls it away from her hands, but angles it to show her the texts. She laughs, delighted. “What a drama queen.”

“He’s being an ass,” Oscar says, like Adam’s his errant dog and he's watching him dig up a park. “I’m really sorry. I’m not even a - a phone person, at all.” 

“Does he know you’re with me?” Gillian’s expression is wickedly amused. Oscar shakes his head. “Well, text him back,” she urges.

“No, no. I don’t do that, I hate the - having your phone even out when you’re on a - when you’re with someone,” Oscar says, but Gillian waves it away. 

“I don't mind,” she insists. “Don’t leave him hanging. Tell him I say hi.”

“Yeah, I'm not gonna do that,” Oscar mumbles, but he taps out quickly, _you gonna make it buddy?_ and then sets his phone face-down on the bar, smiling despite himself. 

Gillian sips her drink. Her eyelashes fan against her cheeks in the dim light. “Can I be totally honest?” she asks. “I didn't know if you'd say yes to going out with me, I kind of thought - I was a little bit convinced that you two were, like, a thing.” She pulls half her mouth down in a guilty grimace. “I hope that doesn't offend you.”

“Why would that offend me?” Oscar asks bluntly. “ _Should_ I be offended?”

“Well, I would be, but that's because I'm massively homophobic,” Gillian explains, making her large eyes go even wider. 

“Well -” Oscar makes a whole show of grabbing his coat and pulling it on with brisk precision, “I've got to go, this has been _illuminating_ -” 

Gillian grabs his arm, laughing, and pulls him back onto the barstool. He relents - light bounces off her dress and hair, making him mothlike. He takes his coat back off, watching her watch him, his arms and shoulders, and it's so safe it almost feels dangerous. Then Adam buzzes again and both their eyes cut over. Gillian smirks like a big cat. Oscar shakes his head. “I know how this looks, but it's not like that,” he says. “Adam’s straight.”

She nods, twisting the ring on her middle finger. “And you're…”

“I’m not.” Gillian nods, a wry little it-figures smile still on her face. “I do like women, though,” he says slowly. “Like, I did know this was a date, I'm not -”

“Whoa, whoa,” Gillian says. “This is a date?” Before Oscar can speak, she puts her hands up. “I'm fucking with you. Of course this is a date. I'm sorry. I don't know when to turn it off when I'm nervous.”

“You don't have to be nervous, Gil,” says Oscar, scooting his stool a little closer. _Buzz._ “Around _me?_ You've seen me at my lowest, crawling around crying in Meisner -” 

“We were all kind of weepy that day,” Gillian points out. _Buzz._ Oscar snorts helplessly at Adam’s awful timing. 

“You should get that,” Gillian says.

Oscar can feel the night spiraling out of his control, can tell he's shown too much of his hand already. “No,” he insists. “He’s not here, I'm here with you.” _Buzz._ “Fuck’s sake!” he finally snaps, grabbing the phone. “I'm gonna just turn the damn thing off -”

“Fuck yeah! Go off the grid!” Gillian pounds her fist on the bar. Oscar hits Home to power down and reads - 

_no yeah probably_

_just cold and bored, think the landlords trying to freeze me out_

_im gonna haunt you from the other side_

_ill miss you too much_

Oscar feels his skin go warm. _Don't die_ , he texts back. _You can't cockblock me from beyond the grave._

“Hey, Oscar?” Gillian says gently. “Can I just call this like I see it?” He looks up at her. She’s smiling. “Like, you should see your face.”

He drops his head down. Ellipses bounce eagerly on the screen, stop, start again. “I'm really sorry,” he says. “You might be right about - I mean, it's not a big deal, I just…”

“Mhmm.” Gillian taps her fingers on the bar, makes them dance the cancan by Oscar’s elbow. “It’s definitely a deal of _some_ kind. Which is pretty cute. But let's agree to just not, okay? I don't know what the thing is with you two, but it's, like...I'm not gonna get involved.” Her fingers reach their grand finale, landing an impressive split. More softly, she adds, “I'm new in the city. I'm actually happy to just have new friends.”

 _hahaha oh FUCK what have i done_ texts Adam. Gillian cranes to see, and Oscar, in the spirit of fairness, shows her the conversation. To her credit, she finds it pretty funny.

“He’s completely flirting with you,” she says, which makes Oscar laugh more. “He must’ve sensed you were out with a girl and moved in. I’m serious. Don’t make that face.”

“Do you want to just get tanked, anyway?” he asks, nodding toward the bartender.

“I obviously do!” She sits up straight on her stool, folding her hands like a kid in a Norman Rockwell painting, and tanked they get. Adam doesn’t text again that night. Oscar tries not to picture him in his cold studio, succeeds a little, fails a little harder. 

 

\--

 

New York hits peak photogenicity in early November, before the tidal waves of parade spectators start pouring in. It’s good movie season. And it’s cold enough for Adam’s favorite coat. 

“Eh? Eh?” Adam does a spin for Oscar by the now-silent fountain, juts out a hip, holds out his arms like the cover of the _Help!_ LP, really working the silhouette. Oscar puts his guitar aside gingerly so he can clap, and Adam turns it into an angular little dance. Oscar’s reminded of the very beginning of the Thing, Adam in a turtle mask, voguing guilelessly across the studio floor. The coat is long and black with a high collar. “This is my favorite coat,” Adam says. 

“Pretty sharp, man,” Oscar says. “I like the buttons.”

“It’s all about the glossy buttons.” Adam moves closer so Oscar can get a better look, crowding into his space. Oscar hisses out a laugh. He reaches forward and runs his thumb over the button in the center of Adam’s stomach. It's smooth and embossed with a calligraphic flourish. “Yeah, get in there,” Adam says in a low voice. “Really get involved with the detail work.”

“Oh yeah, you're into this?” He presses his thumb against the button, firmly enough to feel Adam’s muscles under layers of clothes. Adam affects a cartoonish shudder, leaping back. 

“Only my husband can touch me like that,” he says, mouth twitching. “Don't be a brute.”

Oscar laughs as he packs away his guitar. “I gotta meet this guy one of these days,” he says, shaking his head. 

“He's a dangerous man,” Adam warns. “Keeps me on a tight leash.” He kicks Oscar’s ankle. “Stop staring. We’re gonna be late.”

“Jesus, all right!” Oscar makes sure the clasps are secure - the case is aging a month every day. “What's with you today? You're especially on one.”

Adam shrugs, looking a little abashed. “I really do like this coat,” he says. “It's the first nice thing I ever bought myself with money I made from acting.” He waits for Oscar to stand, then starts loping off. With his hands dug into his black coat, he looks, more than ever, like a huge dark bird, or a hired gun. 

Oscar thinks as he goes after him. “Mine was - I don't remember. Probably spent it on a bottle of bourbon or something. I really don't know. Is that sad?” 

Adam shakes his head. His hair’s getting long. “Not really. I just tend to keep account of nice stuff. Don't have much of it. Never had it as a kid.” He looks over at Oscar with a smirk. “‘A bottle of bourbon.’ What are you, a playwright?” 

“Yeah, didn't I tell you? I'm switching programs.” He hits the doors first, pulls one open for Adam, and then their phones go off in unison. 

“You're shitting me,” says Adam, reading. 

“What?” Adam turns his phone so Oscar can see - class has been canceled at the last minute. He pulls out his own phone and reads the matching email notification there. “We could have slept in,” he says, shaking his head. 

“Sleep on a weekday,” Adam says distantly. Then he jams his hands back in his pockets and turns on his heel. “Wanna get stoned in the park?”

“Hell _yes._ Why are you perfect?” Oscar says in wonder. 

“Deep pockets. Thank the coat,” Adam says over his shoulder. 

They share Adam’s one-hitter on the walk over, hiding in plain sight, then make for the promenade, where the trees are rich with gold leaves in the morning sun. They buy cheap, bad coffee from a cart and split a bag of honey-roasted peanuts to temper the acrid taste. A busker plays the cello nearby, and music wafts around them with a tangible weight. Oscar feels like he could float off into the air, if his shoes weren't so heavy. “This is perfect,” he says aloud. “This is the platonic ideal of a New York day.”

“Woody Allen is furiously masturbating thinking about this day.” 

“For sure. Do you often think about Woody Allen jerking off?”

“Yes,” Adam answers immediately, stonefaced. Oscar finds his cheeks sore from smiling and consciously forces his face to relax, the weed rippling through him and doubling every sensation. 

“Hey,” he says, after a couple long seconds. “What you said earlier.”

Adam gives him a slow, squinty look. “Specifics?”

“I'm getting there. What you said earlier about…not having nice stuff.”

“Oh. Yes.” Adam nods. “What about it?”

Oscar gathers his thoughts into a cluster and shoots through them a line of best fit. “I didn't know,” he says. “I don't know anything about you, I think.”

Adam glances at Oscar as they walk, a sly smile splitting his face. “You're _high,_ ” he says. 

“Oh yeah,” Oscar agrees. Adam cracks up. “What?” demands Oscar, but he's smiling too. “Aren't you?” 

Adam seems to pause to check in with himself. “Touché,” he says. He pedals his hands in the air, rewinding their conversation. “You know everything about me,” he says after a minute. “You know me, man.” 

Oscar’s chest goes tight. He breathes out the impulse to grab Adam by the hand, knocks playfully into him instead. “Aw, homie,” he says. 

“Bro. _Bro._ ” Adam reaches over to steal a few more peanuts out of the bag Oscar’s holding. “Fuck, how are these so good?”

Oscar tips the last couple into his hand - they slide out in an avalanche of granulated sugar. “I dunno, I want to build a house out of them,” he says, popping them in his mouth. They chew. Oscar sucks sugar off his fingertips. Adam is thinking again. 

“I didn't mean I didn't have nice stuff because I was, like, deprived,” he says abruptly. “I was just dumb and poor, and then I was a Marine.” Oscar nods, unsure what to say. Adam’s grinning again. “You did know that, didn't you? I didn't just, like, blow your mind?”

A laugh slips out of Oscar’s mouth. “No, I knew that,” he says. Adam fidgets with one of his button closures. 

“Well, I wasn't sure, since you’ve never thanked me for my service,” he says quietly. 

“Oh, I -” Oscar stammers in surprise. “I'm really sorry, man, I just figured it would be - I'm sorry, I didn't know if -” 

“Everybody else has. Like, I didn't put my life on the line to not be thanked, repeatedly, by every person I meet,” Adam says. His lips are twitching again. 

“Oh my god,” Oscar says. Adam cackles. “You're such an asshole -”

“You looked so scared,” Adam giggles. 

“Thank you for your service, you absolute dick.” Oscar’s grinning despite his best efforts, especially when Adam pulls him against his side - he always gets more tactile when he's high. Oscar shoves away, making Adam laugh harder. 

“You're very welcome.” Adam’s smiling into the middle distance, eyes a little farther away. 

Words float across Oscar’s mind, things he’d like to tell Adam. Things Adam would laugh at him for saying, thinking they were jokes. Instead, he ventures, “Was it - I can't imagine what it must've been like.”

“The military?” Adam’s face is open, relaxed, but his eyes tighten a fraction. “I loved it, actually. It's not how you probably think.”

“I'm sure. I mean, I know. I know I don't know,” Oscar offers stupidly. When Adam was going through basic training, Oscar was fucking around in Miami, writing mediocre lyrics and trying to get laid. Adam doesn't speak. They round a corner and Bethesda Fountain slides into view, gleaming in the morning light. There's a guy playing an Eagles song on an electric guitar in one corner of the terrace. A young woman dances a toddler in a bouncy waltz nearby. Adam lopes over to the fountain and sits, stretching his long legs out in front of him. Oscar follows, a couple steps behind. “Do you miss it?” he asks. 

“Oh, yeah. Absolutely. Tremendously.” He nods. The fountain is warm from the sun, so Oscar pivots and lays down on his back by Adam’s leg. Adam says, “I miss my friends. It was really bad at first, after I got discharged. I didn't think I was gonna - like, find my way in. Anywhere, with anyone else.” 

“God, I'm sorry, man.” Oscar reaches up over his head, feeling blindly for Adam’s arm to touch. Adam dips out of the way, snorting, so Oscar sort of smacks him lightly in the chest. This seems to make Adam laugh, so he does it again, petting clumsily. Adam’s favorite coat is rough against his fingers, but Oscar imagines that to be inside it is warm, lovely. 

“Nothing to be sorry about.” Adam grabs Oscar’s wrist, places it back down on the stone. “I didn't feel that way after I met you, you know. It got a lot better.” 

Oscar’s mind goes soft and prismatic. He sits up so they're face to face. “Adam,” he says slowly, “that's like the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me.” 

Adam chuckles, looking down. He shrugs, makes an expansive gesture with his right hand, seeming a little lost suddenly. Oscar imagines grabbing that hand out of the air, imagines drawing Adam close to him, running his fingers through the waves of Adam’s dark hair. Instead he wets his lips and says, carefully, “I'm glad I met you, too.”

Adam looks at him for a moment, not quite smiling. His light eyes scan Oscar’s face. He opens his mouth to speak. Then, his focus shifts, and he abruptly hauls himself to his feet. “All right, well,” he says in a different voice. “We’re both a couple’a saps when we’re stoned, so that is nice, but that, is, a cop over there. So let's, I'm gonna very calmly walk over in _this_ direction -”

“Oh shit, is there really a cop?” Oscar says, trying to sound casual, like a bird watcher. The moment between them disintegrates like breakaway glass. 

“Uh, yup,” Adam says, straightening his coat. “And I'm holding, so, it's time to go, I think.”

“Dude, you're paranoid.” Oscar grabs his guitar and falls in step beside Adam. 

“Oh, am I? You want to risk it? We reek of weed and you're...I don't know, ethnic,” Adam says over his shoulder. 

Oscar barks out a laugh. “I'm _ethnic?_ That's racist as hell, dude.” 

“So’s that cop, probably!” says Adam through his teeth. 

“That's a fucked up thing to joke about,” Oscar says, bemused. “And you're a hundred feet tall and dressed like an assassin. If either of us is suspicious it's definitely you.” 

“Is he following us?” Adam mutters, walking in long, determined strides. 

“What, you want me to look?” Oscar asks dryly. “With my ethnic face?”

“Oh my god, I'm _sorry,_ ” Adam drawls. “Sorry I'm trying to stay out of _jail_.”

Oscar can't help it - he breaks down laughing. “They're not gonna arrest you,” he says. “The amount you have on you is not even criminal, I'm pretty sure.”

“Let's just, okay, can we - I'm all weirded out, now,” Adam says, speeding up. Oscar hazards a glance over his shoulder and feels a tug in his stomach, confused and then slightly sick - there's no one there at all. 

“Adam,” he says quietly. When he stops walking, Adam keeps going. “This is ridiculous,” he says, louder.

“I'm taking a lap!” Adam calls back. “I'll catch you a little later.”

“Adam!” But he's basically jogging now, away from Oscar, away from the moment, as fast as he reasonably can. 

Oscar stares after him, takes a halting step, then stops. He laughs out loud. Then he settles back down at the fountain and starts tuning his guitar. 

A few minutes go by, then his pocket vibrates. “Oh my god,” he mutters. 

_hey sorry i turned that into rosemarys baby_

Oscar chuckles. _youre not hot enough to pull off the mia farrow thing._ He thinks, then adds, _i did put a devil baby in you while you were asleep though._

_hahaha THIS IS NO DREAM!!!_

He waits a beat, watches Adam draft and discard a few messages. _for real though sorry I dont know how to be._

Oscar looks at the text. Adam's typing again. He can picture him hunched over the phone, formulating an excuse. It feels so sophomoric, thinking about a boy on the other side of those dancing ellipses. Oscar imagines the satisfying splash of chucking his phone into the fountain, bouncing it off the angel’s robes so it shatters with a gunpowder smash. He imagines tracking Adam down, grabbing him by the lapels, demanding a straight answer. Opening Adam’s mouth with his own, if he won’t use his words then he’ll use - 

Then Adam texts again: _& i like your ethnic face i don't think youre arrestable at all_

Oscar’s head sags. He writes: _why did you freak out._ Deletes it. _did you really invent a cop to get away fr-_. Erases it, feeling ridiculous. Then, finally: _don't worry man. we’re good._


	3. suck it up like a tough guy would

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OH GOD IT GREW AGAIN. Next one is the actual real last one. This one has some sexually-tense wrestling in it, though, so that's a plus. Suggested listening is "Tough Guy" by Wild Beasts. Comments are loved and appreciated, just like you.

By the time the semester starts ratcheting up toward finals, the whole Group is antsy, exhausted, limbs stretched and voices strong and brains jammed with steps, lessons, terminology. Oscar’s body always felt to him like a vessel for his mind; now, it's like arms and legs and core are all he is, conscious of every step and gesture. A cold snap hits the city and suddenly it's like being trapped under ice everywhere you go, but the work doesn't let up. Everyone’s in hell. Everyone is feeling weak and mean. Adam and Oscar have been randomly paired together for their Stage Combat final. 

They meet late at night in a rehearsal space, stripping down from coats and boots to workout clothes with grim determination. 

“Haven't been able to feel my toes in like a week,” Adam grumbles, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Oscar shimmies into a forward fold, presses down into his hands, his heels. Lets his eyes close. Tries to breathe, think warm thoughts, think of palm trees. Something icy flops onto his bare foot, and he yelps. Adam laughs. 

“Dude!” Oscar rights himself, agitated for no good reason. “Was that your fucking foot?”

“Maybe.” Adam's smiling his cute sly smile, and Oscar fights a stab of genuine annoyance. “Wanted to see if you could feel since I can’t.”

Oscar makes himself laugh. Adam doesn't mean any harm. Adam never means any harm. “That's such a dad joke,” he says, rolling his shoulders back. “You're the oldest old man I've ever met.”

“Younger than you,” Adam points out. “What does that mean?” 

Oscar shakes his head. “I'm something else.” He pops up on his toes and then rolls back to his heels. “Okay. Wanna do this thing?”

It's a complex sequence, naturalistic and dirty. They practice it at quarter speed, half-speed, three-quarters. After months of movement classes, Adam’s stopped slouching and now looms over Oscar like a long shadow. The fight’s supposed to play on this disparity: lots of quick, sneaky feints and dodges for Oscar and heavier, more straightforward blows for Adam to master. The choreography is solid, easy to color in with characterization, but it’s dizzyingly specific and they can’t seem to get it up to speed like they were taught.

“Fuck.” Adam withdraws, shaking out his hands. Oscar rolls his head forward and back. “Let’s do it again. At fifty.” Oscar nods, biting down on a thought. Adam catches the shift in expression and shoots him a sideways look. “What?”

“Nothing!” Oscar says, trying to smile. “Let’s take it from the backhand, yeah?”

Adam’s eyeing him. “Yeah, all right.” 

The dance is precarious. Fucking Shakespeare involves less planning. Silently, they circle each other, maintaining perfect eye contact, and then Adam lunges, marking a backhand slap that neatly misses Oscar’s cheekbone. Oscar staggers, spins, falls, reaches out for Adam’s leg, marks jerking him down. Adam falls. Then he crawls to Oscar, pins him with a forearm against Oscar’s throat. 

It isn't anybody’s fault - it should be easy but honestly an extended choke is one of the hardest maneuvers to fake. That rolling wave of tension has to go somewhere. Adam pushes in, grimacing, breath hot on Oscar’s face. Then he loses his footing and slips, drops his weight onto his tensed arm, actually cutting off Oscar’s air supply for a split second. 

Oscar gags, rears up on instinct, shoving Adam hard. Adam crabs backward away from him. They watch each other. “Sorry,” says Adam. 

Oscar sweeps a hand down his face, trying to breathe evenly. His heart thuds dully with stupid fear. “It's okay, it's fine,” he says. “Let's take it back.”

Adam goes to all fours and then springs to his feet, extending a hand to pull Oscar up. “Wanna go back further?” 

“No, no.” Oscar shakes his head. “Everything before that is solid.” He glances at the clock. It's past midnight already and they have Speech in the morning. “Let's just try it again.”

Eye contact. Backhand. Stagger, spin, fall. Oscar goes for Adam’s ankle and misses. Adam growls, digging his palms into his eye sockets. 

“My bad,” Oscar says, hands up. Adam huffs out a breath. 

“I'm so tired,” he says. “Can you just…can we get this right?”

Oscar hears the catch. “ _You’re_ tired?” he demands, climbing to his feet again. “You're unbelievable, man. You're the one who -” he stops himself. 

“Who what?” Adam asks tersely. “Say what you're gonna say.”

“You...I think you think you're more prepared than you are,” Oscar says. A muscle in Adam’s jaw twitches. 

“You’re the one holding back, though.” His eyes are steady on Oscar. “Think I can't feel it? What, are you scared of me?”

“Don't flatter yourself, man,” spits Oscar. “I'll stop holding back when you can get through this sequence without losing your balance.”

Adam makes a long, agitated sound. “This doesn't have to be this hard,” he says slowly, which makes Oscar’s blood run even hotter. “You grab my arm, stabilize me, I choke you, three, four, you break away -”

Oscar’s guts twist up. “Oh my _god,_ ” he says. “Okay. Jesus. We should take five.”

“No.” Adam’s eyes are cold. “We’re going again.”

Eye contact. Backhand, close enough that Oscar feels the breeze on his cheek. He feels a sudden ache in his chest - a stray thought, unwelcome, a wish that Adam would hit him for real - he grits his teeth, recoils, spins, falls, grabs, but his concentration is broken and when Adam falls, throws himself on top of Oscar, all Oscar can feel is that Adam’s placement is out of alignment and their hips drag together and Adam, Adam is - 

“What the _fuck!_ ” barks Adam, jerking away. Oscar scrambles up to his knees, breathing hard. Ignore it. It’s nothing. Ignore it. “Grab my arm. Grab my fucking arm or I’ll fall on you and choke you out.” 

Oscar can feel his pulse in every part of his body. “You’re the one,” he says slowly, “who can’t get your fucking placement right.” 

“Don’t make excuses.” Oscar’s never seen Adam so upset, not even in Meisner, grinding his teeth through endless repetitions. “Stop holding back. Stop disengaging.” He takes a deep breath. Oscar knows that particular impotence, of trying and failing to not be angry anymore. “I’m freezing, I’m tired. Get this right or I’m gonna snap, I swear to God.”

“Y’know what, man, I’d actually _love_ to see you snap,” Oscar sneers, “maybe then _any_ of this would read -”

“Don’t you condescend to me, asshole,” Adam says, jumping to his feet. Oscar leaps up, ready. “Again.” 

Eye contact. Backhand - Adam’s swing is sloppy, rushed, and comes right at Oscar’s face so he has to backbend out of the way. Adam turns away from him, bellowing a curse loudly enough that his voice echoes in the small room, bouncing off the mirrored walls. A fuse has been lit in Oscar’s feet, and it travels through his body, filling him with crackling red rage. “What’s _wrong_ with you?” he yells. “Shouldn’t you be good at this? Didn’t they teach you this shit in the Army?”

Adam whips around. “I learned how to _fight,_ not do this stupid fucking make-believe -” He’s so angry he’s spitting and stammering. “Don't talk about shit you don't understand, you - you don't know _anything,_ it’s like - do you _want_ me to really hurt you? Is that what you want?”

Oscar laughs, too loudly. “This is so fucking perfect. All you do is deflect and posture and try to trick everyone into leaving you alone, you petulant fucking child - I’m not scared of you, sweetheart, I _know_ you, remember, _you’re_ the one who’s always scared -”

Adam lunges at him, hard, knocking him off his feet and onto the practice mat behind him. Oscar gasps, now breathless, and Adam’s on top of him, swinging. Oscar kicks out, grabbing a fistful of shirt to try and wrench Adam over - he’s a snarling animal above him, all power and fury. He swings, and Oscar shoves away, winding up to hit him back, but then Adam’s hands find his wrists and pin him down with bruising force - he’s digging into a pressure point Oscar didn’t even know was there, making him yelp in real pain.

“Okay,” Adam says calmly. He’s sitting astride Oscar, both Oscar’s wrists caught in one hand, his other hand pressed against Oscar’s cheek, holding him down. “Sure. Let’s talk about what we know. I know how to actually kill you. You get me?” He pauses. Oscar lies still, breathing hard, humiliated and furious. “So I’m not doing this with you.”

“ _Fuck_ you-” Oscar struggles again, catching Adam off guard, almost freeing himself. Adam slams him back down again. His broad hands come up on either side of Oscar’s face, and Oscar can’t shake him off. 

“ _I’m not doing this with you!_ ” Adam roars into his face. Oscar’s heart pounds. He doesn't move. Adam’s eyes are wild but his breathing steadies a little. Oscar keeps eye contact, doesn't flinch, and slowly angles his head back, baring his throat, offering submission. 

It's a stupid gambit but it pays off. Adam pauses, watchful. Oscar twists just slightly underneath him, just enough to feel with utter certainty the outline of Adam’s cock, painfully hard in his sweatpants. 

Oscar grins, adrenaline and sick triumph. Adam lets go of him and propels himself backward a few feet. 

“Then what are you doing with me,” Oscar says. It’s supposed to come out like a taunt, to make Adam ashamed, but something soft and hungry in Oscar opens up and it turns into almost a plea. 

Adam doesn't say anything. They catch their breath. Oscar rubs at his wrists where Adam’s fingers dug in. He can still feel his hands on his face. Finally, Oscar gives in. “Hey,” he says quietly. “It's not a big thing.” 

“Stop,” Adam says in a low voice. He gets to his feet. “We should have stopped a while ago.”

“Adam, c’mon.” Oscar stands, facing him.

Adam's back is turned. He's reaching to put on his coat. His head shakes but Oscar can't see his face. “I could've hurt you. I think we should call this a night. Don't you?”

“You wouldn't have hurt me, man,” Oscar says. Adam laughs dryly. 

“I wanted to break your fucking face,” he says. “Yeah I would have. I think we should call it a night.”

“It's gonna be weird if we leave it like this. Don’t walk away from me again,” Oscar says, feeling his voice rise a fraction. He suddenly feels like he’s in a foreign country and his passport’s gone missing. 

“It's gonna be fine.” Adam glances at Oscar over his shoulder, then drops to one knee to jam his feet back into his boots in a hurry. “I'm sorry. I'll see you in class tomorrow.” 

Oscar watches him dress. Then he nods and starts pulling on his winter clothes, too, unsure of what else to do. Adam pauses at the door, says, “G’night, man,” without looking back. 

\--

They don't talk about it after that. Oscar spirals in his mind through biology, psychology, all the reasons Adam might have been hard that don't mean anything. That first night he's too shaken to dwell on it as anything other than a humiliating blunder, a lapse in control, but Adam slowly slips back into Oscar’s fantasies, like he always does. Now his hands are around Oscar’s throat, his muscles taut and veins sharp in his arms, growling in his ear when Oscar comes, panting, half-sick and ashamed. 

They meet before class the next day, and the next few after that, and it's quiet and weird at first but it does get better. They decide to only practice their Combat final with choreographer supervision, and it turns out fine, safe and smooth. Lots of good feedback, a strong, supple ache in their muscles. 

It's almost Christmas when class lets out. The whole Group goes out to the Smith to celebrate, exchange presents, say their goodbyes until the second semester starts. Most everyone is living in the city full-time at this point, but there's still a weepy, pointless sense of finality around the proceedings. Some people actually cry. Basically everyone is hammered, making an absurd and happy scene. 

Everyone goes around the table giving out gifts. “ _Oh_ my god,” Gillian says, a little break in her voice. “Hernandez. You didn't.” She models the bracelet he got her to enthusiastic applause. “We’re getting married!” she cries out. “It's official!”

“To the happy couple!” Adam says from Oscar’s other side, raising his glass in the millionth toast of the night. Everyone drinks. Oscar glances over at Adam as he swigs his beer, and Adam’s smiling faintly at him. Something in Oscar’s chest beats little optimistic wings. 

“Save the Dates to follow,” Oscar says. “I love y'all, but Gil and I are poor, so no plus ones.” Gillian laughs with her head back, radiant. Adam grins into his rocks glass. Oscar clears his throat. 

“Alright, bro,” he says, feeling weirdly nervous. He pulls a large gift bag out from under his chair. “Your turn.”

Adam looks up in mild surprise. “Homie.” He straightens his shirt, for some reason. “You didn't have to get me anything.”

Yes I did, Oscar wants to say. It was so easy, he wants to say. “Don't get too excited,” he says instead. “I spent all my money on proposing to Jacobs.”

Adam laughs, tugging out the tissue paper Oscar hastily stuffed in. “I love it,” he deadpans, holding out a handful. Then he sees the items inside and his smile fades. “Oh my god, dude,” he breathes, pulling out the first. “Shut the fuck up.”

“What is it?” asks someone across the table. Oscar can't see who, because he's watching Adam’s face. How his eyes go round, then his mouth splits in an incredulous, gleeful grin. 

“It's a fucking autographed _Pretenders_ LP,” Adam says, right to Oscar. “This is amazing, man, I love it.” 

Oscar shrugs. Happy tingles dance across his limbs. “I got lucky at Other Music,” he says. “It’s a little timeworn, but -”

“Details, details.” Adam waves this away, looking at Oscar with serious eyes. “Thank you.” 

Oscar glances down. “There's something else in there,” he says, “but it's small.” 

“Oscar,” Adam says quietly. He reaches in and pulls out a scarf, blue and grey and soft.

Gillian oohs in appreciation. “Let me feel,” she says, reaching over Oscar. Adam's eyes haven't left him; he barely seems to notice. 

“Oscar,” he says again. “You didn't have to do this.” 

“I wanted to,” Oscar says, trying hard to sound casual and aloof. “Figured you needed a scarf to go with the world’s greatest coat.” 

“It is the world’s greatest scarf,” Adam says. “It’s my favorite scarf. Thank you.” 

He leans in to hug Oscar. Maybe to brush their cheeks together in an air kiss, like everyone’s doing. But instinct takes over, fucking instinct, and Oscar turns his head and catches Adam’s mouth with his own. 

Adam doesn't move at all, doesn't pull away, doesn't lean into the kiss. Time seems to slow. Oscar pulls away, mouth hanging open, and sees Adam looking at him with an almost identical expression. 

“About damn time,” Gillian says loftily, which makes everyone laugh. Oscar and Adam, the inseparable pals with their epic bromance, isn't that hilarious. Oscar, still looking into Adam’s eyes in bewilderment, starts laughing too, like he's in on the whole joke. Adam joins in, belatedly. 

Oscar spins through all the words he knows, searching for the right ones. It's like looking for an important letter in a burning building. Adam’s face is flushed, but other than that he looks calm, like he doesn't even know the house in Oscar’s brain is on fire, like why should it be?

“I'm sorry,” he says through his laughter, weakly. “Gil, sorry, the wedding’s off.”

This is all grandly amusing to everyone, Adam most of all, who clasps his hands under his chin in a show of silent-film delight. They paw at each other, grapple playfully for their audience, and then finally the moment passes and someone else is giving a gift and nobody's looking at him anymore, including Adam, especially Adam.


	4. the universe whispering yes yes yes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this is the end! Explicit content, lots of it. Sorry/you're welcome. Thanks so much for reading. Recommended listening would be "How You Look When You're Falling Down" by Birthmark. The song but also the whole album. Okay. Enjoy. I love you personally.

Oscar cuts out as early as he can without seeming too obviously shaken. He says a few quick goodbyes, gets all the numbers he’s managed to not take down over the last several months, and takes a rocky, loud train ride back to his apartment. 

On the grand human scale, this tragedy is laughably small. Oscar tests out a chuckle to prove this to himself. It’s more of a cough, but he gives himself credit for an honest effort. There’s a time for self-flagellation, anger, marinating in shame and loss. Then there’s a time to be kind. Oscar’s buzz is rapidly fading, so he starts a running inventory of what’s imbibable or smokeable in the apartment, deciding to what little pleasure he might treat himself. His hands absently cramp into invisible frets, planning a song he might write when he’s near his guitar again. Because this is done, now. School, for a while. Adam. This Thing about Adam. It’s time to put it to sleep. 

When he emerges from the subway into the merciless freeze of the Heights, scrolling around to pick music for the next, harshest phase of his commute, his phone lights up and spasms in his hand eagerly. Two missed calls and a barrage of texts. 

_whered you go?_

_motherfucker are you already on the train_

_can i come over_

_I think we need to talk man im serious_

_cool thanks good chat ill be right there_

“Fuck’s sake,” Oscar hisses. He types back, _sorry dude ive got to sleep this off_ and turns his phone off. His teeth grind. He forces himself to relax - jaw, neck, shoulders. It helps, a little. 

He’s only known Adam a few months. Going backwards won’t be hard. He starts re-negotiating the beats of the whole shameful narrative, imagining a not-so-distant future where this all seems funny. Drink makes him lachrymose. He knows this. Tomorrow it’ll be easier.

“Hi,” Adam says when Oscar reaches the door to his apartment. He’s wearing his black coat and his new scarf, cradling the record Oscar gave him like a child. “Hi, Oscar.”

“How the hell did you beat me here?” Oscar says, impressed beyond surprise. 

“Don't let me blow your mind, but they have these yellow cars now that you can pay to drive you places.” Adam isn't smiling. Oscar’s throat clenches. 

“I'm sorry,” he says, looking beyond Adam to the door. “I should've said goodbye. I'm just - I'm embarrassed, I'm still kind of drunk -”

“You really don't have to apologize.” Adam kicks at the pavement. “Can I come up?”

Oscar gives a shallow laugh. “You make it sound so - I dunno, man,” he says. “You don't have to. I get it, I just - I reacted, I didn't mean to - we don't have to talk this out. It's nice of you to come by, but I'm not stupid, awright, I get it, we can - I don't want to lose you as my friend but we can take space, I should’ve told you how I felt, I was just -”

“Can we slow it down?” Adam still looks so serious, no hint of his usual conspirator’s grin. It makes Oscar dizzier, swerving close to actual nausea. “Invite me in. Don't be rude.”

“I - yeah. Of course.” Oscar gestures and goes past him to the door. It takes him a second to fit the key into the lock, but when it clicks open he holds the door behind him. Adam catches it. 

“Thank you.” Oscar feels Adam’s deep voice on the back of his neck and fights a shiver. 

“I'm not a monster, I've still got my manners,” Oscar says, trying in vain to get a bit going, anything to lighten the mood. 

“I know.” 

Adam is never this quiet without also being sarcastic. The nausea grows, mossy and green in his stomach and mouth. Oscar shoulders open the door to his apartment, preparing for the worst, the humiliation and pain of a real severance from someone he - actually, truly loves. Oscar doesn't usually get broken up with. He usually does the breaking. He turns from Adam to lock the door, trying to let out some of the fear on a long exhale. “Listen, man,” he starts, pivoting on his heel to look at Adam and finding himself suddenly being kissed, softly, his face held in large and careful hands. 

Some sort of crystalline alarm sounds in his brain, clear like a bell. Adam pulls away, takes a step back, watching Oscar uncertainly. “Okay?” he asks. 

Oscar wants to laugh, might cry, might puke. “Okay?” he repeats. “The fuck do you mean, _okay?_ ”

“I don't know what I'm doing,” Adam protests. He inches toward Oscar and then stops. Oscar, pressed against the door, doesn't move at all. “I don't know how to do this.”

“Do what?” Oscar asks dumbly, and Adam closes the distance between them and kisses him again. Oscar's hands wake up out of their stunned paralysis and grab, twist around Adam’s forearms. He feels strong, solid. It’s intimate. It's also distinctly surreal. He breaks away, says in his steadiest voice, “Wait, I can't...”

Adam moves back again, but doesn't seem able to totally break contact. His fingers worry the sleeve of Oscar’s coat. They're still in their _coats,_ for fuck’s sake. “I know you're into this, like, at least a little.” 

“No, look, I'm into this a lot,” Oscar says. His voice sounds too loud. “But - you're, aren’t you straight?”

Adam raises an eyebrow. “Aren't you?”

Now Oscar does laugh, shocked. “No!” he says, shaking his head. “I'm...no, I'm not, I’m - I’m whatever.” 

Adam’s fingers edge among his sleeve, graze the skin of his wrist. He snorts. “So you're the only one that gets to be whatever? Maybe I'm whatever too.” He's shaking his head slowly. “I don't know. I just like you. I got nervous. I freaked out. And now I'm here and I have no fucking clue what I'm doing, but I just - I don't want this thing we have, I don't want this nice thing we have to stop.”

Worry soaks through Oscar like ice water. “It doesn't have to,” he says, as gently as he can, “you don't have to do this just to - to keep me around, okay, we can forget I kissed you, and the thing during rehearsal, we can -”

“What are you _talking_ about,” Adam says, agitated. His fingers tighten around Oscar’s wrists, not painfully, but with intent. “Why do you think I'm not into this? What's gonna make you believe me? Fucking -” He leans in, pushing Oscar back into the door, kissing him hard. 

Oscar feels himself go a little loose and breathless. Adam's still holding his wrists, and he raises Oscar’s hands to clasp around his own neck, holds them there in place. All the thoughts in Oscar’s brain die immediately. Adam breaks the kiss, his nose and forehead aligned with Oscar’s. “ _Feel,_ ” he says. His voice resonates down Oscar’s spine. 

“All right,” Oscar rasps. He feels. Adam’s pulse races in his throat, batters against Oscar’s palms.

“Okay?” Adam says, so close that their lips brush. “You getting this now? That's you. That’s what you do.” Oscar is abruptly so hard he feels like he might pass out, grateful Adam’s still pinning him, keeping him upright. 

“This whole time?” he can't help asking. Adam smiles, a fraction.

“No,” he says, “but for a while.” He shakes his head, grazing Oscar’s nose with his own. “I'm sorry I was an asshole and left you hanging. I'm sorry it took me too long. I was fucking dumb and scared.” 

“ _I’m_ dumb,” Oscar says. “I’m so dumb and scared, all the time.” Adam’s laughing now, and Oscar starts too, and then he leans up and does what he’s imagined doing for literal months now, kissing Adam hard, reaching up to fist a hand in his hair. Adam shoves into Oscar harder, his hands moving fleetingly - Oscar feels a thumb graze his cheekbone, fingernails on the side of his neck. He makes a low sound in his throat, and Adam smiles against his lips at this, and then there’s heat and a twitch at his hip - there’s a sort of bracing, jittery intimacy in the fact that they’re both really fucking hard, and Oscar understands, suddenly, that this is happening. This is something he can have.

They’re moving against each other, and Oscar finds the buttons on Adam’s coat, starts undoing them with shaking fingers. “Man,” Adam says, “I knew you liked this coat on me, but…”

“I’m such a slut for this coat,” Oscar says seriously, and they both laugh, kind of giddy. “The things I want to do to this coat.”

“Well, you can't,” mutters Adam, fumbling Oscar's own jacket down his arms and taking it from him. “It's dry clean only.” He helps Oscar, pulling it the rest of the way off and throwing them both over the nearest chair. He gently unspools the scarf from around his neck and gets it out of the way, too. 

Oscar leans up to kiss him again, running his fingers along the hem of Adam’s shirt. “Maybe I can just do them to you, then,” he offers, shrugging one shoulder. 

A shudder goes through Adam. “You can't say shit like that,” he says lowly. 

“So stop me,” Oscar says, the cheesiest line in a repertoire full of them, and it might make them laugh but Adam’s already on him, all over him. He kisses him like he's trying to prove something, like he's trying to erase any other kiss from Oscar’s mind by force. It maybe works, because Oscar can't remember the last time he was kissed like this, if he ever has been. He slides his hands under Adam’s shirt, feels the hard lines of his stomach, feels an urgent pull like thirst in his own body. Adam lets him start taking his sweater off, steps back to help him, and then he's standing shirtless in the middle of Oscar’s tiny kitchen.

He is long and winter-pale, watching him like a waiter, like Oscar might order something else and send him back. Oscar has the immediate weightless sensation of falling. 

“You look…so good, to me,” he says. Adam’s eyes go down. “I hope you know that.”

Adam suppresses a shiver, maybe cold, maybe nerves. Oscar pulls his own shirt over his head and faces him, like now what, like now we’re even. 

It's strange, because they've been more naked together in rehearsal spaces and yoga classes. It's strange how different it feels. Adam looks at Oscar like he wants to memorize him. He puts a hand over his own throat, almost demure. “I feel like my fucking heart’s gonna explode,” he says. So not so demure, maybe. “This is - it's so weird, isn't it? Is it always weird?”

Oscar really wants to press his chest flush against Adam’s, feel the warmth of him on his skin. He bites his lip, hard. “Have you ever done this before?” he asks. “With a guy?”

“Done…” Adam’s eyebrows quirk. “What are we _doing?_ ”

“We don't have to do anything!” Oscar says, palms up. 

“I don't know if I'm that kind of girl, Oscar,” Adam says in a wry voice. 

“Oh god, oh _god,_ ” Oscar deadpans back, “You’re not a girl at all, are you, I knew something was wrong this whole time.” That makes Adam laugh. Oscar takes a step in, carefully. He doesn't know when all the power shifted over to him, doesn't feel like he wants it. He says again, “We don't have to do anything.”

“I do want to,” Adam says evenly. “But I haven't done this before, no.” He indicates Oscar’s body with a vague hand. “Usually at this point, there would be, yeah, I'm used to there being tits at this point.”

Oscar shrugs, like what can you do. “Sorry,” he says, grinning a little. “Does that...freak you out?”

Adam closes the distance between them, touches the center of Oscar’s chest. Oscar wonders if he can feel the clamber of his heart trying to escape into Adam’s hand. “Not as much as I expected,” he says thoughtfully. He traces over Oscar’s sternum, his collarbone, up under his chin. Oscar’s brain goes hot and blank like an electric shock. “I just don't, like, entirely know what to do.”

Oscar opens his mouth and closes it at the base of Adam’s throat. Adam makes a quiet, choked sound. “That’s okay,” he says. “Why don't you let me?” 

Adam nods. Oscar turns and leads him back to his bedroom. He’s been in here before, crashed here, even, curled on the floor after a night out. He’s sat on the end of the bed working on a movement profile for class while Oscar strummed and sang under his breath. Now, he’s letting Oscar push him backwards, so his knees fold and land him on his back on the bed, and it’s like nothing that’s ever happened before in Oscar’s life.

“C’mere,” Adam says, holding out an arm. Oscar goes, hovering between Adam’s spread legs. Adam grabs his wrist and pulls him down on top of him and then they’re kissing again, really, deeply, Oscar biting at Adam’s lip and Adam tugging at Oscar’s hair. A shudder goes through Oscar at the crackle of pain and his hips jerk against Adam’s, making them both gasp.

“Fuck, I -” Adam’s hands stroke down his sides and then settle at his waist, holding him tight against him. Oscar thinks briefly of that late-night combat rehearsal, how their hips had mashed together, then, how angry they’d both been, for such stupid reasons. Oscar presses down, forward, against the front of Adam’s jeans, his eyelids fluttering shut at the friction. Adam makes another small, low sound. 

“How’s that feel?” Oscar whispers against his mouth. He grinds against him again, feels - Adam is so hard, his head tilting back, his mouth fallen open now in like silent prayer. “That feel good, honey?”

“Feelsgood,” Adam rasps, his thumbs digging into Oscar’s hipbones. The bed creaks under them as Oscar picks up a rhythm. Adam strains up for another kiss. Oscar fumbles, trying not to stop moving, thrusts a hand between them, wrenching open the buttons on Adam’s jeans and then his own. 

“Is this okay?” he breathes. 

“Fucking - what do _you_ think,” Adam says, voice unsteady. Oscar shakes his head. 

“Need you to say.” He mouths along Adam’s throat, and Adam’s hands move spastically over him. One finds the hair at the back of Oscar’s neck and pulls again, harder than before. Oscar hears a shocked, animal noise escape his own mouth. He can feel Adam smiling before he sees it. 

“I like this,” he says quietly, and then brings Oscar’s face down so he can crush their mouths together again. Oscar shifts, pulls Adam’s cock out and starts stroking him. 

The room tone seems to pitch up. Adam lets out a stuttering moan against Oscar’s teeth. Oscar’s never seen him like this, so unguarded. He rubs his thumb over the head of Adam’s cock, humming soft appreciation. “Fuck,” Adam groans, breaking the kiss for air. Oscar brings his hand up to his mouth, licks, and wraps it around Adam’s cock again. “That’s,” he gasps. He twists helplessly under him, thrusting up weakly into Oscar’s hand.

“I've got you,” Oscar whispers. Adam’s hand covers his own, and Oscar pulls off to get his own cock, so hard it’s literally starting to hurt, out of the confines of his underwear. “That's it,” he mumbles in Adam’s ear, “show me what you like.”

“ _Fuck,_ man,” Adam says through gritted teeth. Oscar watches him jerk himself, the pale column of his throat exposed as his head falls back, then hidden in shadow as he forces himself to look back up, into Oscar’s stunned face. Oscar strokes in time with Adam, propped up on one arm braced beside Adam’s face. He dips down over him, kissing his mouth, his neck, his ear. Then he drops down to his elbow and grabs both Adam’s cock and his own, thrusting roughly. Adam’s voice breaks, desperate and surprised. He rolls his head to the side and bites down on Oscar’s wrist. 

“That’s - _fuck!_ \- that’s it, sweetheart,” Oscar pants, “wanna make you feel so good -”

“Fuck, Oscar,” groans Adam, angling his head back, and his name sounds so good in Adam’s mouth that Oscar has to grip the base of both their cocks tight so he doesn't come immediately. “You, I'm gonna - come here, kiss me -” 

Oscar drops down with his full weight on top of Adam, kissing him hard. Adam’s tongue is in his mouth and for one brief, dizzying moment, he can't tell where either of them end or begin. He’s still jerking them both roughly in one hand, and Adam makes a deep, guttural noise and seizes up, thrusts his hand down to intertwine with Oscar’s. Lightning streaks through his veins. He breaks the kiss, gasping, “Come for me, honey -”

Adam goes totally silent for a second, freezes, and then lets out a long, ragged breath as he comes over his fist and stomach. Oscar watches, jaw slack, and when he comes a second later it hits him like a train, whiting out his vision for what feels like a solid minute and leaving him empty and exhausted. He collapses on top of Adam, who wraps his arms around him, holding him close, mouth in his hair. 

Oscar can hear Adam’s heart thudding wildly in his chest, feels him coming down, catching his breath. His hands come to life on Oscar’s back, mapping his spine, drawing little circles. Oscar’s eyes drift closed. “Mm,” he mumbles. “How you doing?”

Adam vibrates with a little chuckle. “Pretty fucking okay,” he says. “I should…probably I should, ah, like, clean up a little bit.”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” murmurs Oscar, a little drowsily. “Lemme get off you, bathroom’s down the hall.” But he doesn't move, and Adam doesn't ask him to. 

“In a sec,” Adam says, squeezing Oscar tighter. Oscar raises his head enough to find Adam’s mouth, and they kiss, languidly. Oscar feels himself drifting off, mouth still on Adam, and forces himself to roll away before he falls asleep here. They both wince as they unstick, Adam’s nose wrinkling in mild distaste. 

“I know, I'm sorry,” Oscar says, slowly righting himself. “That part’s definitely a little grosser with two dudes.” 

Adam shrugs, easing unsteadily to his feet. “Small price to pay, I think,” he says. Then he trundles off to the bathroom, pants hanging loosely off his hips. Oscar grins, lascivious, watching him go. 

While he waits for him to come back, Oscar digs in his bedside drawer and finds a neat little joint and a lighter. Feeling decadent, he sparks it and takes a long hit. “Oh my god,” he says to himself on the exhale - this fucking happened, this shit actually went down. As if on cue, Adam re-enters then, very much real. He hangs in the doorway, all long white limbs and torso glistening slightly from a sink rinse. He grins at Oscar. “This is quite the scene,” he says. 

“You want?” Oscar inhales, waits. 

“All kinds of things,” Adam says. He shucks off his jeans and crawls back onto the bed, reaching. Oscar leans in instead, breathing a plume of smoke into Adam’s open mouth. The kiss turns messier, deeper, easy like music. Adam undresses Oscar with unhurried grace, sliding his jeans off while Oscar maneuvers the joint from one hand to the other to help. 

“You’re awfully nice,” Oscar says, holding back a yawn. “You wanna kill this?” 

Adam takes the joint out of his hand and hits it. “Thank you,” he says, a thin cloud of smoke escaping from between his lips. “You’re...you’re pretty amazing, you know that?” 

Oscar’s heart constricts. “I honestly like you so, so much,” he says. Adam smiles at him, his real, happy smile, and Oscar swallows. “You’re really okay?”

“I’m really okay,” Adam says. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

Oscar grins. “All right, man.” He holds up his left hand for a high five. “First gay thing.”

“Oh, hell yeah!” Adam slaps his hand. “First gay thing. I’m a real actor, now.” 

Oscar laughs. “Now you’re in the club. You’re going to be a huge star.” Adam scoffs, but he looks pleased. Oscar inches to the side of the bed and stands, stretching his arms. “My turn,” he says. “You - do you wanna crash here tonight?”

Adam raises an eyebrow. “I took my pants off, dude,” he says bluntly. “I’m not gonna like, put them back on at _this_ hour.”

“Jesus, how rude of me,” Oscar says, rolling his eyes as he walks to the bathroom. “Make yourself at home.” 

He rinses his hands, splashes a little water on his face. In the mirror, he looks bewildered, happy-stunned, eyes reddish and the start of a mouth-shaped bruise on his neck. “Motherfucker,” he mutters, raising his wrist to the mirror - there’s one there, too. He goes back to the bedroom, where Adam’s already under the covers, the shape of his body seeming to span the entire bed. Oscar laughs. “You’re gonna have to share,” he says. 

Adam grunts, lifting the covers. “Just keeping it warm,” he mumbles. “Your apartment’s cold too.” Oscar slides in beside him. Adam is hot to the touch, and he folds Oscar into his arms immediately. 

“Yeah, I know,” Oscar says, once he’s recovered from the truly delightful shock of Adam wanting to cuddle. “The windows are drafty. It’s not so bad as long as you’re moving around.” 

Adam chuckles over his head. “‘Moving around,’” he repeats. “I guess we could move around a little.” 

Oscar feels a brief flare of desire at this, but his arms and legs feel heavy, and Adam’s chest radiates heat on the side of his face. “Later,” he yawns. “You’re warm.” 

 

\--

 

Oscar wakes up slowly to sunlight in his eyes, pale and milky in the early morning. The scrim of sleep starts lifting off, and he takes a minute, puts the pieces of the night back together. Long arms wrapped around his chest, holding him close. Steady breathing in his ear, a shift of movement, and then he realizes - Adam, dreaming behind him, sleep-hard, rutting slightly against the small of his back. Oscar’s cock is fully awake before the rest of him. He gingerly rolls over to look at Adam and the movement causes him to stir, blinking awake. “Oh my god,” he mumbles, voice deeper in the morning than ever. “Hi.” 

“Hey,” Oscar murmurs. “Good dream?” 

Adam doesn't fluster easily, so it turns out that when he does it's pretty fucking cute, turning the bridge of his nose pink. Still, he’s smiling when he nods. Oscar leans for a kiss, then slips his hand down between them to graze his knuckles against the front of Adam’s boxer briefs. Adam shudders, opening his mouth against Oscar’s to deepen the kiss.

“Is this okay?” Oscar asks softly. Some little part of him worries that things might change shape for Adam in the morning light, but Adam’s already nodding, kind of fervently. 

“Fuck, yes,” Adam whispers back. “Please.” 

Oscar slides under the covers to suck Adam’s cock into his mouth. Muffled through the blankets, Adam moans loudly above him. Oscar takes his time, blowing him the way he tends to like it in the morning, slow and lazy and messy. Adam’s hips buck up, and Oscar holds him down gently to take him as deep as he can. He starts jerking off with his free hand, ridiculously turned on by the sounds Adam’s making. Adam’s cock twitches in his mouth, and he grins around him, trying not to drool. 

“Fuck, you’re gonna make me come,” Adam says in a rush, so Oscar does, holding his hips down with both hands so Adam doesn’t choke him. Adam’s hands find Oscar’s hair again, keep him in place as he gasps and shudders.

Oscar swallows. It’s easier than getting up to spit, neater than letting Adam come all over both of them again. He also sort of likes it, though he probably wouldn’t say so out loud. He kisses Adam’s hipbone, then scoots back up in bed. The cool air hits first, but Adam’s right behind, crushing his mouth over Oscar’s, pulling him up into half a sitting position against the headboard. He’s kind of surprised by Adam’s willingness to kiss him immediately post-blowjob, but more pressing is how badly he wants to get off. He starts jerking himself again, not breaking the kiss. 

“Should I,” Adam breathes against him, moving his arms uncertainly. “Do you want me to…” 

Oscar smiles. “Baby steps,” he says. “You don’t have to do anything. I can just -” 

“Can I watch you?” Adam rasps. Jesus fuck. Oscar forces his hand to still, nodding, pushing the blankets off himself. He tries to keep his eyes open as he strokes his cock, but Adam’s gaze on him, hungry and serious and fascinated, is almost too much to bear. “Come closer,” Adam says in a quiet voice.

“Where should I -” Oscar starts, but Adam reaches over, grabs him easily, and pulls him into his lap so Oscar straddles him. He lets his weight sink forward into Adam, who’s propped against the headboard taking this all in. 

“It’s kind of funny,” Adam says, eyes tracking Oscar’s face, his open mouth, his hand furiously working his cock, “that night we got in the fight in the rehearsal space, I really thought I was angry at you, I thought I wanted to hurt you, but -” he strokes his hands up Oscar’s spread thighs - “I think maybe what I wanted was to fuck the hell out of you, actually.”

Oscar curses, right on the edge. Adam closes his hand over Oscar’s, replaces it, and starts stroking Oscar roughly, murmuring in his ear, “You have no idea how many times I jerked off, just like this, thinking about what I wanted to do to you -” 

“Adam, _fuck_ -” Oscar’s eyes squeeze shut as he comes, messily, blissed-out and dizzy. Adam holds him tight, even as he takes the worst of it over his fingers and down his wrist. When Oscar has the strength to open his eyes again, Adam’s grinning, looking a little smug, cleaning himself off with the corner of the sheet. 

“Damn,” he says. “You really like that shit, huh?” 

“Is that true?” Oscar says, regaining a little control over his breathing. “Did you?” 

Adam leans in and nips at Oscar's shoulder. “Yeah, actually,” he says. “A lot. If I'd known it'd turn out like this, I probably would've - I dunno. Done something about it sooner.” 

"Better late than never.” Oscar lets out a long breath, then rolls off the bed and bounces to his feet. “Wanna go get breakfast?”

Adam laughs. “Can I shower first, now that you’ve, like, money-shotted all over me?”

“Well, when you put it like that - Jesus - Yeah, of course.” Adam gets up, stretching languorously. Oscar finds a spare towel and throws it at him. “Hurry back,” he says. “I've gotta shower too and I'm starving.”

Adam gives him a considering look. “You could join me,” he offers. 

Oscar’s face splits into a shocked, gleeful grin. “Fuck it, why not?” He starts leading the way to the bathroom, Adam right on his heels. “I gotta be real with you, man, I'm impressed,” he says. “You're really taking to the gay stuff like a fish to water.”

“There's nothing gay about saving resources. That's offensive, Oscar,” Adam says soberly. “We all have to look after our Mother Earth.”

“Aw, yeah,” Oscar says. He adjusts the knobs until steam fills the room and then steps under the stream. “Talk water conservation to me.”

“Kids,” Adam says, stripping out of his boxer briefs and joining him. “Kids, let me real quick spin my chair around and rap at you about showering with a friend to save the earth.”

It feels so familiar, so easy. They get clean and then end up idly making out until the water starts to run cold. After they're dressed, Oscar brings Adam to his favorite little breakfast place in the neighborhood. He orders for both of them in Spanish, just to keep things simple, and can't help but notice the way Adam watches him, appreciative and kind of impressed. It feels like someone’s lit a little candle in Oscar’s stomach and is protecting it with their hands. 

It’s cold outside but sunny and bright, so they walk with their breakfast sandwiches and coffee to Mitchel Square, nudging into each other along the way. Adam sighs into the chilly morning air, watching his breath evaporate in a white flash. “Dunno what I'm gonna do with myself without, fucking, three hours of stretching and mask work every morning,” he mutters. 

“Maybe you can be a street performer in Times Square,” Oscar suggests. “For practice.”

“Oh, sure.” Adam nods. “That's high-paying work, for, like, serious actors.”

“You're actually really good at it,” Oscar says, feeling himself go a little pink at the ears. “The first time I - I was really struck by you during Mask class, you know, that was when I first, I dunno, kind of noticed you. You were so - I can't say. I have no idea why I'm telling you this.”

If Oscar’s eyes don't deceive him, Adam might also be blushing. Possibly. “Well, thanks.” He’s quiet. “You're going to be really fucking famous, dude.”

Oscar cracks up. “ _You_ are,” he says. 

“For my mask work?” Adam’s mouth twitches up.

“Sure. Just gotta find that niche,” Oscar says. He means it, too. The future feels close-by, almost bright enough to see with the naked eye, like a new planet. 

Adam glances down at him. He wraps an arm around Oscar’s shoulders and tucks him into his side, pressing a quick, firm kiss into his hair. “I guess we’ll see,” he muses. 

First person plural. Oscar smiles to himself. Not a bad start to something. 

“Shit, look,” Adam says suddenly. “Bench just freed up!” He quickens his pace, making for a sunny spot near the statue in the center of the square.

Oscar laughs, watching him go. He’s more than a leg’s length ahead of him, but Oscar feels no particular yen to try and catch up. School’s out. They've got all day. And Adam’s not going anywhere.


End file.
